


Wings of Desire

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Sam and Ruth try to figure out what they want and what they need.
Relationships: Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 36
Kudos: 79





	1. I

It’s close to midnight and they’re still waiting for their dessert at the stupid Cable TV Awards after-show. The evening has been spent sniping back and forth at their little round table. Arguing over nothing, over _anything_ , between courses of increasingly cold food. The rest of the production team has drifted away, bored of their fight. But they remain, a constant thorn in the other’s side. Pricking ‘til they bleed because he’s still hurting, and she can’t say sorry. Because she’s scared. If she pulls him out from between her ribs, she might find there’s nothing left between them but bitterness.

“Okay, alright! So _The_ _Last Emperor_ is going to sweep the board. But I still think _The Untouchables_ is a better movie.”

“Why? Because you worked with De Palma that one time?”

“No! No, that’s not…” He huffs an irritated sigh. “Fine; if you know so fucking much, what’s _your_ Oscar pick?”

“ _Wings of Desire_.”

He screws up his face. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, my God, are you kidding? Because it’s pretentious and worthy and so fucking _boring_ _._ ”

“It’s not boring!” she scoffs. “It’s—it’s beautiful and _longing_ and—and—”

“Dull.”

She shakes her head, trying to think of the right counterargument. Instead, she can’t help but notice his hands; worrying the tablecloth, the cutlery. He’s so freshly fragile sober, it’s an obvious struggle to keep them away from the bottle of wine on their table. He folds them in his lap, clearly biting back a tirade. Fighting a battle with himself and losing. “Fuck it. No one gives a shit what I think these days, anyway.”

“Sam…”

“No. Don’t. I’m _done_.” He stands, throwing his napkin down. “I’ll see you Monday, Ruth. If there is one.”

She hesitates as he stalks away, but only for a moment. Trotting after him across the crowded dining room and out into a cream carpeted corridor. “Sam, wait!”

“What?” he snarls, turning on his heel. “What the fuck do you want now, Ruth?”

“I just – I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret!”

He opens and closes his mouth, and she _knows_ the next words out of his mouth are going to be weapons. “Isn’t that your speciality?”

“I don’t want you to use drugs,” she says flatly; refusing to let him see how deeply his words cut her. “I don’t want you to drink.”

“Why? Why do you give a _fuck_ _—_?”

“Because I do! I just – I do, I do! And I am so sick of pretending that things are okay between us when they’re not. And I’m _sorry_.”

He stares at her in the yawning seconds of silence that follow her outburst. Words she’s been avoiding for three months finally shaken loose. She feels almost sick.

“I know,” he says. Smaller and sadder than she was expecting. “Me too.” 

She shakes her head. “You have every right to be angry with me.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But it’s getting a little old.” More silence stretches awkward between them. “I just don’t know how to fix it, you know?

“Me neither.”

He blows out his cheeks. “Well. Thanks. I think.”

“For what?”

“I wasn’t going to go… home,” he admits.

“Oh. Um… do you want me to stay with you? Or—?”

She doesn’t really need to finish her question. Sam’s face is an open book. _Really_? she wants to say _, Still? After all of this?_ But maybe people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. A misanthrope on the edge of relapse is a very poor choice indeed, and yet she’s here, standing in front of him. Close enough for her to see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. The muscle that twitches in his cheek, as he grinds his teeth together like he’s resisting physical pain.

“I mean,” he says softly, “isn’t that kind of my whole fucking problem?”

And she can’t quite breathe, trapped in his gaze. Not until he looks away, brow quirking as he tries to find the words to dig them out of this frozen moment, can she move. “Um—” he starts, and she grabs the front of his badly fitted jacket and pulls him him roughly into a kiss.

He resists, for one terrible moment, still as a stone. And she knows why. Because she’s like booze, like blow; like all of his other addictions. She’s a price to be paid somewhere down the road and he’s trying to make better decisions these days.

But old habits die hard. His paper-thin resolve cracks, and suddenly he is kissing her so hard it almost hurts. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes against her lips. “Ruth, I—”

“Shh,” she manages, “Shh, it’s okay, it’s— everything’s okay—”

The stumble blindly, backward, through the first door that opens under her hand. A fancy bathroom; all marble sinks and expensive over-perfumed flowers. He manages to fumble the lock, and then his face is pressed to hers again as he takes her in his arms. They kiss, and they kiss; eyes closed and breathless. She rolls her hips against his obvious erection; surprised at the sudden sharp pang between her legs.

He hoists her up onto the countertop. Pushes her skirt up with strong, slightly shaking hands; pulls down her panties. The marble is cold under her thighs as she unbuckles his belt, letting his pants fall down to somewhere round about his knees. Something jolts in the pit of her stomach. Mingled shock and excitement at the sudden reality of his cock, standing proud between them. And then he’s kissing her again, and she’s arching against him, so he can push inside—

They gasp in time together as he does. His hands on her hips, squeezing involuntary as he fills her. She kisses him fiercely as they move together. Harder and faster, until she has to break their kiss and lean back to brace herself against the countertop instead. She can see his hands on her body. The frown on his face, as his thrusts staccato and he struggles to stifle his noises. She touches a hand to his chin, running her thumb along his jaw. Her fingers curling reflexively into his hair, pulling tight as her own arousal spikes.

“Don’t stop. God, please—”

“Oh. Fuck. Fuck. Ruth. _Fuck_.”


	2. II

She finally meets her eyes in the mirror when she washes her hands. 

This is the other side. If _before_ is all lip biting and stomach-squirm tension, then _after_ is trying to hide the evidence. The fading fingerprints on her thighs; sweat and semen. He zipped up his pants and looked at her with an expression of _now what?_ and her answer was to propel him out of the bathroom and lock the door again while she cleans up.

Because she doesn’t know. There’s a leaden feeling in her stomach. Not regret, exactly, but _doubt._ She doesn’t know if he’ll be waiting for her outside the bathroom. She doesn’t know what happens next. So, she steels herself for an empty corridor, turns the lock and—

And finds he’s still there. Waiting next to the door with his arms folded and a frown, foot jiggling.

“Hey.” 

She manages a weak smile in return. “Hi.”

“Can I give you a ride home? Please?”

It comes out sharper than she thinks he intends. Like he’s scared out of his mind, too. Neither of them are very good at this. In other circumstances that realisation might freight relief. Right now, it feels more like they’re in the cab of a runaway train. She nods, nonetheless. Not sure if she is putting on the brakes or pulling the accelerator. 

The smell of cigarettes and old leather is comfortingly familiar as she slips into the front seat of his car at least. He puts his hands on the steering wheel and gives her a look. “I don’t know where you live anymore,” he says, when she stares back askance. 

“Oh! Right. Of course, I—” Some part of her brain was expecting him to drive her back to the _Dusty Spur,_ she realises. Like his car is a time machine, taking them back to where everything really began. “I’m, uh, I’m out by Lakeview Terrace…” 

“Jesus.” 

“If it’s too far I can always—” 

“No, no.” He pulls away. “It’s not too far, Ruth.” They drive in silence for a while. The night-time city a passing distraction through the window. “Did I tell you Justine made me a mix tape?” 

It’s a pointless piece of information, but she grasps it like the lifeline it is. “No! Is it…?” She points to the dusty cassette player. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? That shit? I’d probably crash the goddamn car.” She presses her lips together to stifle a laugh. “I have it on my Walkman back at the office though.” 

“Wow.” 

“Yeah. I’m getting into all the latest technology these days.”

He catches her eye, obviously relieved to see her grin, and they pass the next twenty minutes in amiable bickering. 

His new Casio bleeps the hour just as they crunch to a halt outside her apartment building. “Huh,” he says, taking in the frontage. “Looks… nice.” 

“Well, you know, it’s no deluxe motel.” 

“Hah.” 

Her heart is thumping hard behind her ribs again as they run out of words. “Do you want to—?” she hears her mouth say. “To come in for coffee? Or do you need—?” 

He takes a breath; neither one of them quite sure what his reply is going to be. “I, um…” He sighs, as he loses another battle with his sensible self. “Sure. Coffee would be good. If I’m gonna, you know, make it back over the hill.” 

He follows her inside, up the stairs. Fingers catching hers as they climb. Just for a second, light enough to be almost accidental. 

She knows it’s not. 

“So. This is me,” she says, awkward, as he steps inside. 

“It’s nice,” he lies. “Cosy.” 

Cramped is probably more accurate. Or it would be, if she hadn’t already ruthlessly culled her possessions to drag herself from shitty motel to crummy casino. Probably she should take him over to the little kitchenette, boil the kettle. If she thought for one moment he was really here for her coffee. 

Instead she takes his hand. Traces up, over his thumb, the bones of his wrist. Her fingers curl around his elbow and he takes the hint and pulls her into his arms. Forehead pressed to hers as his hands move over her back; noses bumping. His lips brush hers, eyes falling closed. And they kiss. Soft and sweet. Eventually her fingers find the buttons of his horrible jacket, slipping it off of his shoulders. His shirt follows, and she runs her hands over his chest; presses kisses along his collar bone—

She looks up and her stomach lurches at the sight of his blazing expression. His mouth finds hers again, and there is nothing sweet about the way they’re kissing now. He pulls her out of her clothes; lays her down on the worn-soft cotton of her bedsheets. And they are both shaking, she realises. 

“Hey,” she breathes, putting a hand to his face. “Hey. We’re here. We’re together, we—” 

“I know. I know.” 

_But for how long?_

The question hangs between them unspoken. He nods his understanding at her inability to give him an answer, turning his face to her palm. He kisses down her hand, her wrist. Slowly, gently. She has the hazy sense he wants to show her he can be more than the bitter angry fuck he fears himself to be. But she loves him because he can be kind without treating her like some china doll. Because he’s never given her any quarter and somehow, rather than shrink away, she finds herself rising to meet him. So she wraps her fingers around the back of his neck, almost like a lock-up. Eyes on his as she makes her request.

“Please,” she says, “fuck me?” 

“Oh, God,” he replies. But he does as he’s told; pushing her knees apart and driving deep inside of her. He takes both her wrists in his hand, holds them behind her head as he lifts her hips to better accommodate him. 

“Oh,” she hears herself breathe, over and over, in time with his movements between her legs. “Oh, _fuck.”_

He’s close now too. She can tell from the fraying of his rhythm; how hard he is inside her. His eyes screwed shut and the sweat on his brow.

She tightens around him, her fists clenching. An involuntary sort of noise escaping her as she comes. It finds a low echo in his throat, as he spends himself in turn. 

“Uh,” he manages, heavy against her as he catches his breath. She kisses his neck as he comes back to himself. And maybe it’s not before and after, she thinks, as he rolls onto his side and pulls her close. Maybe it’s just the verse and the chorus; different parts but still the same song. 

She puts her hand once more to his whiskery cheek, and closes her eyes to sleep.


	3. III

He wakes long before she does; before the dawn. His sleep pattern is all shot to shit anyway, his body struggling to make sense of things without booze and blow and nicotine and all the other coping mechanisms he’s used to numb himself for fucking decades. It’s an unfamiliar room. She’s presumably used to the creaks and moaning pipes of her apartment building, but his reptile brain jolts him out of sleep at every strange noise.

And she’s so fucking beautiful. Even with her mouth open, snoring lightly. The chances of him not screwing this up are slim to none, so fuck it. He’s just going to make the most of every _second_ she’s spooned up against him like this, and try not to feel like too much of a creep.

Eventually his bladder gets the better of him. With a sigh he goes to find the bathroom. There’s a choice of two doors and, of course, the first one he opens turns out to be her linen closet. He rolls his eyes and finds what he’s seeking behind the second. Feeling slightly guilty about snooping on her private space but doing it anyway. Her toothbrush stands in a mug with a faded teddy-bear on it. There’s a well-squeezed tube of toothpaste, a dollar-store deodorant, and not much else. It’s prison cell bare, really. Every bit as sad as the clutter of his post-divorce duplex, in its own way.

He finishes his piss and pads, barefoot and buck-naked, back to bed.

“Mmm,” she says, as he curls around her. He can _feel_ her smile as he buries his face in her hair. “Good morning.”

“Barely,” he returns. Pressing a kiss to the back of her neck that makes her squirm slightly. He likes that, he thinks, and gives her another. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you went back to sleep.”

“No, no,” she demurs, entirely predictably. “I’m not really that sleepy.” She turns in his arms to look at him. Her hand moves, seeming unbidden. Tracing his mustache, thumb stroking the prickling stubble on his jaw. Her eyes locked on his. “Do you – do you have places you need to be?” she asks, tentative.

He almost laughs in her face. “No,” he scoffs. “And even if I did, do you think I’d wanna go?”

It’s that kind of honesty that can run him into trouble, when it comes to Ruth. He watches her breath catch in her throat; the frown that briefly creases between her brows as she struggles to process what he’s said, what it means. “Sam…”

“What?” They’re tangled together, skin warm against skin. What armour is he meant to have left against her, at this point?

She opens and closes her mouth a few times. “I don’t know,” she admits.

“I can’t be nice to you? Is that it?”

“No, I— you can be nice! Sometimes! I just—” She stops, biting her lip as she tries to think of the words to frame her thoughts, and he takes his chances and kisses her. Her mouth opens under his, her hands move over his body, and for a while she’s all there is in the world to him.

Eventually they break apart again. That faint smile is back on her face, and if he was ten years younger, he would absolutely try to fuck her again right now. But age, and maybe sobriety too, brings some wisdom. Even if it’s just the kind borne of bitter experience. What they need right now is something softer, slower. Something where he can still manage to get a goddamn sentence out.

“I think,” he says, as her fingers curl in the hair at the nape of his neck, “that I would like to take you for breakfast.”

“Mm-hm?”

“And then…”

Her eyes widen. “And then?”

He gives her another kiss. “Does there always have to be a fucking plan, Ruth?”

She chuckles. “No,” she says. Wriggling closer, tucking her head under his chin as he wraps his arms around her. “I guess not.”

* * *

“I’m not saying he’s not talented, he just annoys the fuck out of me, and I don’t want to spend ten weeks working with him!”

She makes one of her patented Ruth squeaks of outrage at this pronouncement. They’re irritating, he tells himself firmly; not endearing. Any part of him that disagrees is not in full possession of the facts.

She’s shaking her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter! Debbie and Bash have decided—"

“Oh, come on! If you’d just had my back for once, rather than always having to argue the other point to be fucking _contrary—”_

“I don’t argue with you to be contrary!” she snaps back. They’ve walked all the way from the board room to her little office on the corner, over the course of their argument. “I don’t always agree with you. You’re not right about everything, Sam! You just think you are!”

“Oh, Christ.” He follows her inside. “Now you just sound like my ex-wife.”

“Well, have you ever considered she might have had a point?” 

_“No—”_

The door clicks shut behind him, and she turns and takes his face in her hands, pressing kisses to his mouth. “I think we fooled them.”

“I think we fooled _me_ ,” he manages. Half-annoyed, increasingly aroused, and wondering what it might be like to have a normal goddamn sex life. “Ruth. _Ruth._ ” He catches her hands before she can slip them inside his pants. “You said you didn’t want to do this here.”

“I know, but, I missed you this weekend and – mmf–”

They make out for a while. “You really missed me?”

She almost rolls her eyes at his disbelief. “…Maybe?”

He smiles, in spite of himself. “I wasn’t just blowing you off. I really did have to take Justine to a UCB thing.”

“I – I know.”

“Hmm.” He considers their options between kisses. “Well, why don’t we take a drive over lunch?

There’s a word for the smile she wears at this suggestion. He thinks it’s probably sinful. “Where did you have in mind?”


	4. IV

It’s a relatively secluded parking lot, high up in the hills, but there’s definitely still a risk they’re going to wind up arrested for public indecency.

It’s probably worth it, he thinks. His hands moving under her shirt as she fucks him in the driver’s seat. Her fingers winding into his hair, tugging almost painfully tight. “Oh, God,” she hisses. Eyes closed tight; lips pressed together, losing herself to sensation. “Oh, _God_.” 

It’s her name that he calls out as he shudders to his finish, not any deity’s. And everything about this is… fucking ridiculous. His head pressed to hers, breathing hard in the sweaty aftermath. She shifts carefully, finding a more comfortable position in his lap. He presses his palm to her cheek, thumb smearing over her lips. And she laughs. At him, he thinks, and all of this _feeling_ that he has for her. At the way they’ve steamed up the windows of his car, and the fact he’s sitting here with his pants still somewhere round his ankles; shirt half-unbuttoned.

“Jesus, Ruth.”

“Was it… okay?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She blinks those ridiculous big blue eyes at him, and he knows she’s not. Something between a sigh and a growl escapes him. “ _Yes_ , Ruth. You know, a beautiful woman asking me to drive her to the middle of nowhere to have sex actually falls pretty high on my—”

“I’m not… You don’t have to say that.”

“What?” he asks, genuinely nonplussed. The penny drops eventually. “Oh. That you’re beautiful?

“Yes.”

“Oh, come _on_!”

“You said it yourself! I have one of those faces that... changes.”

He shakes his head, astonished she still even _remembers_ those words, from years ago now. “Ruth. I’ve always thought you were fucking hot. I just also thought you were trouble.” He considers their surroundings. “And, you know, thinking about it, I stand by that assessment...”

“Sam?”

It still freights a little fear, when she says his name like that. “What?” he replies softly.

“Shut up.” She kisses him. It goes on for a while, now the insane urgency of desperate want they carry around for each other has been addressed. Eventually she brings them to a halt with a smile against his lips, her still nose bumping his. “We should probably head back, right?”

“Yeah, it’ll be real fucking subtle, us turning up like we’ve been through a hedge backwards together at three in the afternoon.” She squeaks outrage, opening her mouth to argue, but takes in the state of his hair and baulks at the challenge. “Will you relax? I told Carol you were going to be out all this afternoon location scouting.”

“With you?”

“ _No_. Do you think I’m an idiot? She knows on Wednesdays I’ve got a secret society meeting.”

“Oh.” She considers this. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I’m there right now with my sponsor. She got me on the straight and narrow in Vegas, of all places. I mean, if I can be a good boy there, Los Angeles is a piece of cake, right?”

She compresses a laugh, and kisses him for a time again. “So, what are you planning to do with the rest of your afternoon playing hooky?”

“Well, I thought I’d be a gentleman and give you a lift back to your car. And I do actually have a meeting of fellow washed-up losers I need to go to.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to call them that.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not meant to talk about them at all with people outside the programme, but here we fucking are.” Amusement plays around her mouth but she holds any laughter inside, and he bites his lip for a moment; decides to push his luck. “And I thought I’d ask if you want to come with me on a date.”

It’s an interesting emotional journey that plays out on her face, if nothing else. Delight, dread, and denial, he thinks. She rolls her head as she tries to find the right words to blow him out. “Sam. You don’t need to do that,” she tries.

“I know. I want to.”

“Ah…” She blows hair out of her eyes. “I just… I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why? Because we’re trying to keep this on the down-low?” He huffs a sigh. “I’m not saying we have to get a table for two in the window at _Del Tana’s_ , Ruth! I’d just like to, you know, spend some time together. Somewhere that isn’t at work, or... or in the fucking props cupboard, or halfway up a goddamn mountain.” 

She tries to grin disarmingly. “Are you worried I’m only interested in you for the sex?”

“I’m worried you’re ashamed to be seen with me,” he says, killing her smile. “You know, I want this. I want _you._ All of you. But if you don’t feel the same…”

“No, it’s not—it’s not that!” She wrings her hands together, like that can unknot the tangle of her thoughts. “I’m just _scared_ , Sam. You know, once everybody knows about this there’s no going back.” He waits for the real truth, which is always the last thing out of Ruth’s mouth, he’s come to learn. “And because I don’t want everybody thinking that I only got this job because I fucked the director.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, there’s nothing I can do about that. And anyway, Debbie gave both of us our jobs.”

“I know, I know that. I just wanted to give us a little time. To… enjoy this. Enjoy being an us, without any pressure.”

“Hmm,” he says, rolling the sound around his mouth. It’s a nice sentiment, but he knows her too well to really believe it. He thinks it much more likely she’s giving them time for the inevitable crash and burn. But perhaps, in the end, it’s all the same thing. “Okay, how’s this: you come for dinner at my place on Friday. I’ll cook and we can watch a movie. That’s like, two dates in one.”

“But what about—?”

“Justine has a sleep-away thing organised,” he lies. Fifty dollars will probably buy him silence from his daughter on this, and he’d have spent that on dinner at a swanky restaurant, right? “It’ll just be you and me.”

She nods. "Okay. Yes."

"You're sure?" He can't help but check, eyes narrowed.

"I'm sure." She presses a gentle kiss to his worried mouth. And he wishes, more than anything in the world, that he believed her. That he wasn't too burned by bitter experience to trust the sincerity of sweet gestures. "It's a date. Friday. What time?" 

"Seven o'clock."

"And is there a dresscode for this fine dining establishment?" 

He considers this. "That, I think, is up to you."


	5. V

The heels are a mistake. She doesn’t wear them often enough, these days, to walk comfortably. She feels a fool tripping up his driveway. But without them her borrowed dress is way too long, and—

—and she’s at his front door. She runs her fingers through her hair, steeling herself, and rings the bell.

He clearly nervous too, when he opens up. Anxious faced, with his hair neatly combed; his moustache smartly trimmed. He’s ironed his shirt and – even more unsual – it smells like he’s actually wearing cologne.

“Hey,” he manages. Almost playing it cool; tone undercut by the line of his worried mouth. “You wanna come in?”

“Sure,” she smiles, her own faux-confidence just as unconvincing as she steps inside. She expects a similar setup to family dinner with Justine. Instead, he’s found a checked tablecloth; fancy plates and cutlery and candles. Most surprising of all is a bottle of unopened wine on the table.

“Umm?”

He rolls his eyes, suddenly seeming much more like himself. “Relax. I’m still on the fucking wagon. It’s for you, if you want it.”

“Oh,” she manages. “No. No, it’s-its fine. You don’t have to—”

“Alright, okay.”

There is a long moment of mutual, awkward silence as they both try to figure out what to say next. They look so ridiculous, overdressed like this. And for _what,_ she thinks. She likes him in his worn polo-shirts and jerseys, when he's in need of a shave. Likes how he looks with his hair all askew, particularly if she’s the cause… 

He frowns slightly, eyes narrowing as he considers his options, and takes a step closer. Forcing her to look up at him. Even in her high heels he’s that much taller. And she catches the momentary flicker of his gaze over her lips; the quirk of his eyebrow behind his glasses as his eyes meet hers again.

A question.

She closes her eyes in answer and his mouth find hers.

And it is so typical of them, she thinks, as he kisses her softly, to overcomplicate things with costumes and drama. His hands graze her elbows, moving up over her arms, as she takes his face in her hands. Both of them smiling stupid now— 

He breaks the kiss. “Come on. Before we get distracted.” His arm slung over her shoulder, like they are walking down the street together, rather than just into his kitchen. “Alright,” he says, as she squeaks her surprise at dishes ready on the countertops. “We’ve got _caponata_ , which is mostly aubergine, and uh, _gatò di patate_.” He reads her blank look correctly. “Potato and cheese.”

“What are _those_?”

“Oh, um, _arancini_. Kind of. I couldn’t quite get the right…” He trails off at the sight of her expression. “What?”

“I just… this is just…”

“Well, don’t get too excited. It’s this, and I can fry a steak.” He shakes his head. “But I know you have feelings about steak, so—”

“Who taught you all of this?” she asks, moving to heap some of the food onto a waiting plate. “Your Mom?”

“Christ, no,” he frowns. “I used to work in my Uncle’s restaurant. And I didn’t exactly have the disposition for waiting tables. So, you know, what else can you do but learn to cook?”

He shrugs, and spears his own rice-ball, as she smiles at the mental picture of Sam the line-chef.

* * *

“Can I please help with the washing-up this time?” she says, tidying her cutlery primly onto her empty plate when she’s finished.

“No,” he replies, pushing back his chair to stand, “but you can decide which movie you want to see.”

She leans back to watch him take through the plates, jam them roughly into his already overloaded dishwasher. “Where are we going to watch it?” His glaring lack of a television — or indeed any VHS tapes — has struck her on previous visits.

“Ah. Well, now you’ve got two working fucking legs, I can show you upstairs...” 

“Upstairs?”

“Uh-huh. Come on.”

She’s long since kicked off her heels. Padding barefoot after him, dress in hand to stop her catching the hem and falling. She can feel her heartbeat against her ribs; nervous excitement a bird in her chest. Which is ridiculous, really. It’s not like there’s much left that’s unknown between them. But sex and intimacy are in different zip codes as far as Sam’s concerned. There’s something about the quirk of his moustache, the anxious pinch between his eyebrows, that tells her whatever is behind this door is far more private to him than what’s underneath his clothes. She’d be lying if she said that didn’t scare her a little.

She steps into the above-garage space after him, heart in mouth, and smiles.

There’s a projector. Reels of film. A television and VHS player, sop to modern times, and shelves of tapes along the side wall. It’s something beyond a home cinema, and she understands his nervousness about letting her see this. He tries so hard to pretend he doesn’t give a fuck about anything – and here’s his love for cinema written large all over this space.

She crosses to wall of tapes, aware of his eyes on her from across the room. Her fingers ghost the dusty spines of, yes, his own output. Other gore-splattered horror movies from his contemporaries, and those that came before. Argento, Romero, DePalma… Hitchcock and Browning and Whale. But there’s plenty beyond his favoured oeuvre: science fiction epics and MGM classics. Foreign language films and Golden Age comedies fighting for shelf space with – she’s not going to blush, she tells herself– arthouse erotica and porn from the Valley...

“Your choice,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ll pick next time,” he says, soft. “You know, if there is one…”

She ignore this piece of pessimism, pulling out a tape and raising her eyebrows. He crosses to her to see her choice. _It Happened One Night._

“Ah. A classic. You know, Frank Capra was originally from—”

“Sicily?” she smiles. “I know. I thought it would fit tonight’s theme.”

“Hmm,” he hums in reply, loading the tape as she takes her seat on the battered couch. He comes to sit next to her, and on screen the credits start to roll. Meets her eyes for a moment, sighing softly. Her innards squeeze at the tell-tale sign of Sam making up his mind about something he thinks is a bad idea. He shifts in his seat, extricating his right arm. “I don’t know if you wanna…?”

It takes a moment to work out what he’s asking, palm open. To curl against him, she realises. “Mmhm,” she manages, scooting over. Holding her breath for a moment, as his arm wraps around her shoulders.

They both watch the screen, ostensibly focussed on the movie. And maybe he is, she thinks. Maybe the rise and fall of her chest, the press of her ribs against his, isn’t the same kind of distraction for him. Maybe the trace of his thumb over her bicep is unconscious, and—

He looks down at her, in the same moment as she looks up at him, and she knows it isn’t. For a long moment they stay, almost frozen in the flickering light of the film. Drawn inexorably closer, until his nose brushes hers.

His eyes fall closed, and she kisses him long and soft and slow.


	6. VI

He’s lying on his back underneath her. Watching her, as she traces the lines of his face, alien without his glasses. The ridge of his brow passes under her fingertips; the hollowed line of his cheek. Her thumb brushes over the tip of his nose and into the bristle of his moustache. His catches it with his lips, kisses it. Giving her a lopsided smile as she huffs a laugh at his ridiculousness.

She feels almost high. A curious unreality to everything as if this room, cast in yellowish light from his bedside lamp, is all there is. Their edges are blurred; every last shred of emotional armour abandoned. Where he ends, where she begins; it’s lost in the sensation of skin smeared against skin. She presses her mouth to his and he yields to her kiss. Tongue moving against hers as his palms ghost over her back. Only when she starts to draw away is there a flash of something sharp, something needy. She can feel it in the pressure he returns through their kiss; the momentary press of his hand.

And it’s _ridiculous_ , she tells herself, the pulse of arousal that kicks between her legs in response. _She’s_ ridiculous.

And she never intended to stay the night. They came downstairs on the flimsy pretence of finding his copy of Capra’s biography and merely found each other again, this time in his bedroom. Too easy to lose his pants, his shirt, as they made out; hot and heavy. More of a challenge was her borrowed dress. Eventually he carefully unzipped the thing, pressing soft kisses to the back of her neck as he slid the fabric delicately over her shoulders and down onto the floor. Finding herself like a china doll in his hands again. Maybe he’s used to women who like that sort of thing. Maybe he’s just scared of hurting her.

Maybe that’s why she took things the route she did; to all fours on his bed. His fingers digging roughly into her hips as he entered her. Reaching around to find her clit; holding her hard against him, fucking her thoroughly. 

She gasps, in the here and now, as his hand moves over her breasts. His mouth follows his fingers. Finding first one nipple, sucking hard; then the other. “Oh, God,” he breathes. Or maybe she does; it’s hard to be sure. He’s hard between her thighs and she’s slippery and swollen with want. Moving against him, taking him inside her again.

“Oh, _God_ ,” he says; she says. As his hips buck, as she rocks back and forth. As they fuck; and they fuck; and they fall apart together all over again. 

* * *

The sound of his front door closing wakes her with a start.

For a wild second she thinks it’s him, leaving. But as she blinks into full consciousness she finds he's still asleep at her side. Mouth open, snoring softly. His hair standing on end so much it resembles Zoya’s trademark quiff, she thinks with a smile.

Footsteps, the sound of someone putting down a bag on the dining table, jolt her back to reality. “Fuck,” she says softly. Realising the shafts of sunlight invading the room _aren_ ’t the first rays of dawn. His alarm clock declares it to be ten thirty in the morning, and Justine has clearly returned home from her suspiciously convenient slumber party.

She sits up, fighting the sheets she’s wound around herself in sleep. Pressing a hand to her head as she tries to engineer a solution. Her dress and her leggings are in a heap at the foot of his bed. Get dressed, maybe climb out the window and—

“Hey,” he says, voice cracked but loud. “You okay? What’s happening, what’s—?”

“I think Justine came home,” she whispers back, trying to quiet him.

“Oh. Right.” He looks nonplussed, but at least he’s no longer at full volume. “I mean, yeah. She does that.”

“I just, I don't think it's the right time to… to… You know,” she babbles, twisting her hands. 

“To what?”

She sighs; in some ways explaining her feelings about this seem like a betrayal. “To still be here.”

“Oh,” he says, not quite managing to hide the hurt her words have indeed freighted. “Well, you know, she’ll probably go back to her room and then you can just… sneak out.”

She closes her eyes briefly, aware that her next words are not the right ones, but somehow still powerless to stop them escaping. “I left my shoes…”

“She’s eighteen,” he retorts. Hard and angry now. “She’s not going to fucking notice—”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I don’t want to…”

“To _what_ , Ruth?”

She waves a hand vaguely. “To ruin everything.”

His frown deepens for a moment, as he opens and closes his mouth. She realises she’s holding her breath, waiting for more of the spite and bile of his self-defence mechanism to overspill. “Well, since when do we ever do things the fucking easy way?” he snaps. Still nettled; still angry; but he takes the hand that snakes towards his across the bed, fingers folding over hers.

“Do you think we could try?” she asks of their hands. Risking a glance up at him, sidelong, as he shakes his head. 

“I don’t know, Ruth,” he sighs. “I want to. Yeah. I want to.” They move at the same time, making their kiss clumsy, at least to start. “Look,” he continues, forehead pressed to hers. “I’ll go make some coffee and try to rescue your fucking shoes. You can… climb out the window, I guess, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not. I mean, I don’t.” She puts her hand to his cheek. “But can I at least borrow shirt? Or-or a sweater or something?”

He huffs a laugh at that. “Sure, Ruth.” A softer, sweeter kiss; as they gyroscope away from the catastrophe curve. “Sure.”


	7. VII

He finds his daughter in the kitchen, absently eating cereal as she pores over a graphic novel. “Hey,” he says. “How was the sleep-away thing?”

“Fine. Sorry if I’m not supposed to be back here yet.”

He makes a face as he puts on the coffee. “You fucking live here.”

“I know, but... don’t you still have company?” She indicates with a jerk of her head the discarded shoes that Ruth was so twisted up about. So much for his pronouncement on the poor observation skills of teenagers.

His first instinct is sarcasm, but something in the unhappy line of her mouth makes him pause and eventually opt for honesty instead. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“No,” she shrugs, in that way he thinks means ‘maybe.’ And he’s out of his fucking depth now, but what else is new? She eats another spoon of cereal. “So. Things are pretty serious?”

He bares his teeth as he contemplates his options. “Yeah,” he admits, in the end. Pinching the end of his nose as he considers things further. “I mean, I think so. Don’t know…. haven’t asked if she feels the same.” 

“Jesus.”

He shakes his head, but manages for once not to rise to the bait of her scoff. Eyes narrowed, as he tries to work out what his next move should be. “Do you… wanna say hi?”

She shrugs again. “Sure.” 

“Alright…”

He stumps back to his bedroom. Ruth, of course, is now barricaded in the bathroom. He sits on the bed for a moment, shaking his head again at the fucking insanity of this whole situation, while he waits for her to emerge. She eventually does, smelling faintly of soap and wearing one of his striped sweaters over her leggings. It’s long enough on her to be a dress; the sleeves folded thick to give her back the use of her hands.

“Hi,” she says on sight of him. Anxious-soft, but smiling.

And he’s a fucking _idiot_. The realisation strikes him with absolute crystal clarity as he looks at her. He may as well give up right now and hand over the keys to this shitty duplex, his fucking car, and half of whatever’s left in his ravaged bank account. That’s surely where all this _ends_. Because as far as he’s concerned she’s just about the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. Standing in front of him in borrowed clothes; not a scrap of make-up on her face and her hair still hanging damp from her hasty wash in his sink.

“Oh, God,” he says, with feeling.

“Should I not have—?” she starts, but he crosses to her in less than the time it takes to panic. Taking hold of her shoulders and kissing her before she can get the rest of the sentence out. 

“C’mon,” he says. “I made coffee.”

They return to the kitchen, where Justine is stirring creamer into her own cup.

“So—” he starts, and she looks up and drops the spoon in shock.

“Oh, my God! You’re such a fucking _asshole_!”

“ _What_ —?”

“I thought you were dating some stranger! Why didn’t you just tell me it was Ruth?”

“Fuck! I don’t know! Jesus Christ!”

Silence rings in the aftermath of their mutual outburst. Eventually, Ruth clears her throat, very carefully. “So, I take it this means you don’t mind that we’re seeing each other?”

“Are you kidding me?” Justine exclaims. “I was expecting some airhead blonde—”

“Hey! Hey! I’m still your fucking father, alright? Jesus.” He shakes his head, as both women visibly struggle to contain their amusement. “And I’m taking my fucking coffee outside.” 

Neither one of them follows him. He sits, squinting in the sun. Watching them laugh together through the kitchen window while he sulks at his little patio table, and misses his cigarettes. Eventually Justine slips away and Ruth slides open the door to come and join him, cup in hand.

“Are you mad?”

“Maybe.” He sighs. “I mean, I guess that could have gone worse.”

“Mm-hm.”

She comes to sit on the chair next to him. Touching her knee to his; smile like sunlight. It almost makes him _angry_ , which is fucking stupid. Things are going to be dicey enough as it is, without him getting his self-defence in first. But she twists up his insides with all this _feeling_ , and he’s so scared to lose it he’d rather throw it away.

“Justine was wondering if you wanted to go get some brunch together,” she continues.

He takes her hand, almost convulsive. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” Turning his gaze on her and watching her eyes widen slightly under his stare. “Do you?”

She nods, and squeezes his fingers. “Yes," she says. "I do.”

* * *

“So... is Ruth going to move in?” Justine asks, apropos of nothing, as their Sunday afternoon unspools into evening. 

He frowns, pen scratching edits on a treatment that should have been on Debbie’s desk three days ago. A casualty of his distracted panic, pre dinner-date. “Why the fuck would you say that?” he replies, tone milder than his words.

“You said it was serious.” She snaps her novel shut; a worrying sign she expects this line of teasing enquiry to continue. “And, I mean, it _looked_ pretty serious at brunch…”

“Oh, because you're a such a fucking expert now, on how relationships work?” He shakes his head, anticipating a witty rejoinder. Instead there is silence. It goes on for long enough for him to glance up, and realise with a sinking stomach that he’s probably gone too far. “Sorry,” he says, putting down his pen. “I’m sorry.” 

She presses her lips together, still looking hurt. “It’s fine—”

“No, no. I get it. It could change things around here, and—”

“Yeah, for the better,” she cuts across, before he can build up steam. “You’re way less of a pain in the ass when you’re all gooey eyed over Ruth.”

“I don’t think I get gooey eyed.” She merely raises her eyebrows in response and he sighs. “Alright, fine. But she’s not moving in. There’s barely enough room for all of your shit in here. I can’t have two of you leaving things all over the place.”

“Um, literally all of the shit in here is yours...”

“Which is how I like it,” he says. Thinking of that bare little apartment out at Lakeview Terrace, pared down to just the essentials, and knowing he’s a fucking liar.


End file.
